


cold wind rising

by unhappy_matt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Implied Canon-Typical Violence, Implied Neglect, Introspection, Mini-Fic, Sam-Centric, dysfunctional family dynamics, slightly canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 04:00:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28504131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhappy_matt/pseuds/unhappy_matt
Summary: "Never use sharp objects without the supervision of a parent or a teacher."
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 11





	cold wind rising

**Author's Note:**

> The second prompt fill I wrote thanks to Ems' suggestion. The prompt was "box cutter".

They’re inside a small convenience store in the middle of nowhere, at around 8 pm, stopping briefly for some food and some first aid supplies before they hit the road again.

The place is mostly empty, but they still keep their heads down while they move quickly along the aisles, Sam opting to keep his hood up. The air conditioning inside is excessive for the cool Fall night outside, and he battles a growing sense of weariness and unease as he throws stuff inside his cart, impatient to get back to the car.

He holds up a milk carton, then puts it back—it’s not practical, he’ll get something else. A different section attracts his attention, a small area with a few stationery items.

He could use a new notepad, he’s almost finished the one he’s been carrying around. He tries not to scribble on dad’s journal too much, although he occasionally underlines something here or there, or takes notes on the margins of the pages. Dad left the journal for them to find—but he’ll want it back. _When_ they meet again.

Dean is off somewhere in a different aisle, so Sam heads toward the pens and pencils and colorful backpacks with cartoon characters by himself.

He’s not alone there. There’s a child—around eight or nine years old, with curly black hair and a Batman yellow and blue t-shirt. He’s pointing at various items and picking them out, chattering happily with a petite woman with long, dark hair tied into a braid that sways along her back. The boy’s voice and his bouncing steps boom through the quiet, cramped space.

Sam stops, a few steps away, letting his eye slide across notebooks and binders. Something churns inside his chest, a stifled echo of a pain he can no longer remember. He grinds his teeth, and his hand hovers in front of the shelf.

He glances at the pairing, mother and son.

“We have to make a model of our bedrooms,” the boy is explaining excitedly, holding up a small package like a trophy. It’s a box cutter, the kind of thing parents are asked to buy for their children’s craft projects in class.

_Never use sharp objects without the supervision of a parent or a teacher._

Sam swallows. His knuckles whiten around a random notebook and he adds it to his groceries, almost without looking at it. The woman cups the boy’s head, murmuring something in a gentle voice.

When she turns, she makes eye contact with Sam and she smiles, a tentative, apologetic smile. A tired parent excusing her child’s loudness in a public place. Sam smiles back at her, with a small nod. He grabs his cart, wheels it out of the isle.

_“Dean?”_

_“What is it, Sammy?”_

_The room was dark, the TV screen providing the only bluish light. The night was very black, and sometimes very quiet, while they were alone, waiting for their father to come back. But Dean was with him._

_“Is Batman real?”_

_A question around a mouthful of cereals, while they watched cartoons on some worn out leather couch, in a hotel room like a hundred others._

How old was he? Four, five? His feet didn’t touch the floor, swaying from the edge of the cushion.

_“No, Sammy,” Dean had said, with the authority of being the oldest. “Batman isn’t real. He fights fake monsters.”_

_Sam had mulled it over, stirring the content of his bowl with the metal spoon. Older brothers were usually right about things._

_After careful consideration, Sam had nodded solemnly._

_“Dad is stronger than Batman,” he had concluded, satisfied with that solved mystery._

Sam meets Dean at checkout. They leave quickly and quietly, putting their carts back before they head toward the Impala. The sky is clear, and a cold wind is rising, sweeping dead leaves in spirals above the asphalted parking lot.

“Chips?” Dean hands him the packet he already tore open. The colorful, metallic envelope glimmers with the reflections of the store’s neon sign. Sam declines, raising a hand.

Dean’s eyes linger for a moment, scanning Sam’s face.

“Hey. You okay, Sam?”

Sam exhales, allowing the tension to flow from his shoulders to the tips of his fingers. They still have miles and miles to go, always moving forward. Everywhere and nowhere.

“Yeah,” he says. His exhaustion is too bone-deep to smile. “Yeah, I’m fine.”


End file.
